“Almost. Ya casi termino, jefe.”
“Gotta go, sweetie.” Bigby straightened the holster on his hip and hopped into the Jeep. John Wayne amid the avocados.
“I could come along,” she said.
“Sends the wrong message to the men. Wouldn't want them to think their jefe's pussy-whipped.”
“Of course not.”
She studied him, smoke swirling around his head, diesel fumes in the air.
“What?” Bruce asked.
“I've never seen you like this.”
“In a time of crisis,” Bigby intoned, “that's when you can take the full measure of a man.”
“So true.”
He motioned for the driver to pull away. Still standing, gripping the roll bar with one hand, he waved to Victoria with the other. “Later, sweetie.”
“Later, jefe,” Victoria said, as the Jeep bumped along the path and disappeared into the black haze of the grove.
Thirty-seven
THE WHISPERING OF PALM TREES
Steve's butt was sore, and his torn lip flared with pain. Bobby was starting to calm down, asking if he could have marshmallows in his hot chocolate. They were walking on a flagstone path between two rows of cypress trees. Bigby's farmhouse sat on a rise ahead of them.
“Big house for one person,” Bobby said.
“Two people,” Steve corrected.
The house was a solid three stories of Dade County pine with a wraparound porch and a tin roof. It had been built by Bigby's great-grandfather, who'd also had the good sense to buy two thousand acres of surrounding land nobody wanted at the time. The exterior grounds had been preserved much as they must have been in the reign of Bigby the First, Steve figured. A sugarcane grinder sat under a lean-to; a dinner bell topped a ten-foot-high pole; and firewood was stacked next to a smokehouse, where in earlier days hogs were turned into hams.
Steve spotted some modern additions. A red clay tennis court ringed by coconut palms. A lagoon surrounded by a man-made beach, and a chickee hut with bamboo walls and a roof of dried palm fronds. He visualized Victoria as Lady of Bigby Manor, didn't like the picture, chased it away.
He and Bobby walked inside, where a uniformed housekeeper seemed to be expecting them. Bigby must have called ahead on his cell phone or walkie-talkie, Steve figured, or maybe he sent smoke signals. The maid held a cup of steaming coffee for Steve and a cup of hot chocolate for Bobby. With marshmallows.
The coffee stung Steve's lip. The hot chocolate sent Bobby off on a riff about cocoa beans. He'd read somewhere about the health benefits of flavonoids, and he was repeating the chemical composition to Steve, who wasn't listening. Instead, he was thinking about Bruce Bigby. The man with everything. Including Victoria.
So why don't I hate him?
Maybe because Bigby seemed decent enough. Sure, the guy was irritatingly upbeat and so forthright that irony sailed right by him. Then there was that streak of boosterism, hawking his time-shares like some kind of subtropical Babbitt. But so what? Compared to most people Steve encountered each day-violent criminals, incompetent judges, perjurious witnesses-Bigby was a Boy Scout with shiny merit badges. Besides, it didn't matter what he thought. Victoria loved the guy.
So get over it, chump. She's his.
The interior of the house had been updated recently, Steve thought, as he walked Bobby to a guest bedroom. The walls were sleek mahogany, the floors Italian tile. The artwork-mostly South American and Native American- was expensive, eclectic, and tasteful, if you overlooked the six-foot oil painting of two ripe avocados dangling on a branch like pendulous breasts.
The guest bedroom was a cozy place with Native American baskets, wall hangings, and pottery. Steve tucked Bobby into bed, pulling a comforter up to his chin.
“Don't go till I fall asleep, Uncle Steve.”
Steve sat on the edge of the bed. “Not going anywhere, kiddo.”
“That was raging today, huh?”
“Raging?”
“When you waxed Mom's friend, you were totally tight.”
“Totally,” Steve agreed. There was something buzzing around in Bobby's head, Steve knew, but it was having a hard time coming out. “You want to talk about what happened, kiddo?”
Under the comforter, Bobby's thin shoulders shrugged.
“You know the rules. Anything you ask, I answer.”
“My mom,” Bobby said. “Is she a bad person or is she, like, totally whacked?”
He'd never lied to the boy. He couldn't start now. “A little of both. Maybe a lot of both.”
“How come she's bad and you're good?”
“She's not all bad and I'm not all good.”
And that was the truth, he thought. Only hours earlier, he'd agreed to pay Janice a bribe. One hundred thousand dollars for her favorable testimony. His only defense was that he didn't have the money to carry out the crime. He would work on that tomorrow. He would try not to consider the ethical and moral ramifications of what he had agreed to do. That, he knew, would come another day, and with it, a pain worse than his current headache.
The boy's eyelids were fluttering. “If Mrs. Barksdale murdered her husband, wouldn't she be way bad?”
“Way bad,” Steve agreed.
“Not the bad that's good. The bad that's bad.”
“Yep.”
“The woman is perfected,” the boy whispered. “We'll figure it out.” A second later, he was asleep.
“You're a wonderful father,” a soft voice said.
Steve turned. Victoria stood just inside the bedroom door.
“Thanks. But sometimes I think I get more from him than he does from me.”
Victoria walked to the bed, reached down, and stroked Bobby's cheek. He was breathing so heavily he seemed to be purring. “He idolizes you. You should be very proud.”
But just now, he wasn't feeling proud at all. Not as a would-be father. Not as a lawyer. Not as a man. He felt more like a felon on the verge of being caught. Hoping to change the subject, he gestured toward a darkened window. “How's it going out there?”
“Temperature's dropping. Bruce is freaking.”
“Sorry I'm not more help.”
“That's okay. I just thought it would be nice to have you around.” She was silent a moment. Then she said: “Do you want to take a walk?”
A three-quarter moon peeked through the orange-tinted clouds, and black smoke curled above the trees. Cuban love songs played on the speakers as Victoria led Steve along a path of coral rocks on a ridge above the grove. Suddenly, thousands of brightly colored lights blinked on, turning the avocado grove into a stand of Christmas trees.
“Wow. Look at that.”
“Bruce's idea to heat the trees,” Victoria said. “He cleaned out every Wal-Mart of Christmas lights from Orlando to Key West.”
“Smart guy, your Bigby.”
“He's got nothing on you.”
